


a definition of terms

by lostinthefire



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Asexual Clint Barton, Asexuality, F/M, Fluff, Gen, clint has no no views on it other than "no thanks", defining relationships, natasha has questionable views on sex, the spies make their own rules
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 22:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4642245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinthefire/pseuds/lostinthefire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha is used to having sex as just another tool but Clint doesn't seem interested in what she has to offer.  Or, the one where Natasha dismisses the word love and uses her own terms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a definition of terms

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the be-compromised promptathon. Based ofo of scribble_myname's prompt for asexual Clint and Natasha not meaning to fall in love.

It's not that Natasha didn't know about love, that's not it at all. She just didn't understand Clint's definition of the term, what he was actually saying when he said (or didn't say) he loved her.

She thinks love is hands going everywhere, love is teeth on skin, lips parted and gasping. She thinks love is want the taste of sweat and sex on her tongue. She things love is desire for the physical, intimate things. She thinks love is nothing more than that. 

She thinks love can be bought and love can be given away and thrown out as easily as a used condom.

To her, love is a thrill, a quick fuck and then vanishing to finish what you're actually there to do. Love is not something you spend time on, develop and foster with care and devotion. Love is cheap, love is easy, love isn't worth much at all.

But Clint doesn't look at he with lust in his repression, his eyes don't go over her, obviously imagining what she's like naked and in his bed. He doesn't care and he doesn't want her in that way and it scares her.

It scares her because she is so accustomed to be wanted in that way, to be able to wrap someone around her finger, let them fuck her and get what she wants. Sex is a weapon, one she knows how to wield with precision and deadly force. 

But Clint doesn't care, he couldn't give less of a damn if he tried.

And her heart beats in her chest, a fear rising in the back of her throat because this was a sure fire weapon in her arsenal. She liked him, she wouldn't mind sleeping with him and if she could get something out of it, she would. She was so used to having sex to fall back on, knowing it wasn't an option with the person she needed to be able to rely on made her twitchy and agitated.

She wouldn't admit that fear drove the other emotions, that knowing she couldn't manipulate him in that way, the way she manipulated so many others, was leaving her ill at ease. She couldn't tell him and she didn't talk to anyone else. No one got her intimate moments, her doubt, her fear. She wouldn't share it and so she's left doubting, uncertain and unable to feel actually comfortable around him for a long time.

But time passes and they fall into easy patterns. He shows her how to shoot his bow, she teaches him about her own weapons. They learn and grow with each other, carefully at first, then easily as they begin to trust and understand the other.

Natasha never asks him about the sex, how come he never comes on to her, why he seems so disinterested. Clint invites her to his apartment and they never fall into bed, they have pizza and watch movies instead. He makes her dinner and they laugh a the kitchen table.

They fall into these patterns that promise friendship and company. Shes' never once asked for sex and she actually starts to get used to it.

Clint is safe, he's comfort and assurance that she won't be doing anything she doesn't really want to. He is popcorn and bad movies and a stupid but loving dog at her feet. He is the smell of food in the oven and a warm hand at her back. 

And as he solidifies in her mind, settles into the realm of being someone she trusts and cares for, she finds herself wanting to know.

"it's not my bag," he says, whens he asks him about why he doesn't seem to bring anyone home with him. She's sitting cross-legged on the couch, eating Chinese out of the box and watching him with curious eyes.

"You don't like it?"

Clint shrugs. "It's boring," he explains. "And a little weird. But mostly boring. I'll do it if I have to, or if it makes the person I'm dating happy, but it's just not my thing."

She looks at him like he must be joking, like somehow he's screwing with her and she's just not picking up on the humor.

He shrugs again. 

She changes the subject after that, talking about the net op they'll be heading out to at the end of the week but she's left with the words echoing in her head like a code she has to decipher. 

But as time marches on and she and Clint keep doing things, keep expanding their friendship, she finds herself unsure if it even maters. Things like staying at his apartment or going out for dinner become what comes to mind when she thinks of him. A comfortable, reassuring weight settles around her as she finds herself developing a life with him and she's not sure how she feels about that.

It's when she finds herself leaving on him, half asleep and lazy, one hand wrapped up in his, that the severity of the situation really hits her.

There are many definitions of love, many ways the words can be wielded and it's meaning turned into something that works for them.

She never says it to him, never pulls that word out of her arsenal because it's not something he needs held at his throat. Love is fucked up, loaded and dangerous.

Love carries too much weight and she's not going to point that gun at him.

Instead, she simply closes her eyes, a soft hum of comfort falling from her lips before she speaks. "This is good," she says, her voice careful. "I like this."

"Yeah," he agrees, one arm around her, holding her close as he looks down at her. "This is pretty good."

"I wasn't aiming for this. For any of it. You know that, right?"

"I know."

"So, what happens now?"

He laughs a little. "You keep coming over, we keep surviving. You let me cook for you and we keep falling asleep on the couch when time permits."

"And that's it?"

He nods, one hand moving to rub at her shoulder. "I keep giving you back rubs. That happens too."

She laughs a little, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you."

He grins and it's a little lopsided. "Yeah, well, you make it pretty easy to do. There's not much need for thanks."

She settles back against him, her eyes closing, head shaking. There are so many reasons to thank him, to be grateful for him and she doesn't have the words to express it all but she's not sure she has to.

She can't see herself ever using the word love, can't see herself ever pulling that out and holding it against him, but there's trust and there's loyalty and there's the comfort that he gives her which no one else can do.

She cherishes him with everything she has and maybe it's not as good as love to some, but it works for her.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me elsewhere:  
> [My DW](http://rootsofthestories.dreamwidth.org) (which I use regularly)  
> [My Tumblr](http://analtarofstars.tumblr.com/) (which I am very rarely on)  
> [My Twitter](http://twitter.com/harvestgraces) (which I am on at random)


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